


rinse and repeat

by DrSchaf



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: BDS II, Explicit Sexual Content, Jealousy, M/M, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 01:05:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11452779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrSchaf/pseuds/DrSchaf
Summary: Murphy isalwayssitting at that table now, and nothing good comes of it, ever.





	rinse and repeat

**Author's Note:**

> Friend, this is for you. Or because of you :D Please don't stop giving me plot-bunnies.

“Yer all puffed up,” Murphy says.

The needle presses into the skin on his back and Connor tries to turn his head without moving the rest of his body, earning a fist to his shoulder for the trouble. “Fuck,” he snaps, trying to hold still. “How am I puffed up when I'm sitting with my back to ye?”

Murphy squeezes his shoulder, hard. “Earlier.”

“Earlier,” Connor repeats, reaching for a smoke and receiving another painful squeeze to his shoulder. “Will ye quit?”

Murphy moves behind him and pokes something feeling suspiciously like a knee against his lower back. “So, about earlier.”

Connor stares ahead, about being fed up with whatever mood Murphy is in. “Ye have to be a bit more specific, I'm afraid.” He lights his smoke with minimal movement, quite proud of himself when Murphy doesn't poke him this time.

“That Mexican lad, the slick little fighter guy,” Murphy says, pausing. “I think he likes ye.”

Connor snorts and inhales smoke in the process. “He's got style, no?” he says when he's done coughing, grinning a bit and wiping at his mouth. “Moves like that could come in handy, I'm sure.”  
  
Suddenly, Murphy's face is right next to his, voice low. “What for?”

“The fuck is wrong with ye?”

That seems to do the trick. Murphy moves away as quickly as he came, continuing with the tattoo in silence, and Connor shakes his head, finishing his smoke and trying to forget about it.

*

Murphy has been pulling a face for a few minutes and given the mood he was in _before_ Romeo found them out, Connor is not surprised. He doesn't ask for an explanation though, because he has, in all honesty, no interest in prolonging the weird atmosphere they've been stuck in. In silence, they settle in for the night and Connor is ready to call it a day when Murphy decides to make a fuss after all.

“I told ye,” he says, mean and quiet, and Connor wants to pull a blanket over his face and hide, but they don't have blankets on this shithole of a ship, so he makes due by staring at the ceiling instead.

Murphy kicks up and slams his foot against Connor's back.

“Fuck!” Connor shouts, craning his neck to look down at his brother. “What the fuck do ye _want_?”

“He likes ye.”

“I've no idea what that means,” Connor says and while he means it, he still refrains from turning onto his back again, just in case Murphy isn't done with whatever pissed him off in the first place.

Murphy scoffs and rolls his eyes, face tense like he's ready for a fight. “Don't be thick, how can ye not notice? Didn't ye see how he looked at ye?”

Connor opens his mouth to say something, but he can't think of a single thing besides a variety of 'what the fucks'.

Turns out he doesn't need to, because Murphy isn't finished. “That clown checked ye out, he couldn't take his eyes off of ye. In a fucking _nasty_ way. And don't get me started on the whiskey-”

“He saw the tattoos,” Connor cuts in, dumbfounded. “Of course he stared at them.”

Murphy clicks his tongue and makes to stand, but then he seems to change his mind and grabs a smoke instead. “Yer fucking stupid,” he says and takes a few quick drags. “He's gay for ye.”

Connor blinks, and then he blinks a bit more. “Ye think?” he asks, uncomfortable, and tries to think back to their last encounter.

“Aye.”

Connor reaches down and wiggles his fingers, asking for the smoke.

Murphy glares at him. “So, what ye think about it? Ye two gonna be a thing now?”

“What the actual fuck,” Connor says quietly and then he's out of his hammock in one move. Murphy follows suit.

“Since ye didn't notice and all, it might as well be that ye like the attention,” he says and his voice is quiet, too, the same sort of quiet he gets when he's making serious threats.

Connor takes a deep breath, willing himself to not let the situation escalate because it's clear as fucking glass Murphy is looking for a fight. “Even if he's a faggot - and I'm not saying yer right - what's that got to do with me? I'm not fucking gay, Jesus Christ.”

Something flashes in Murphy's eyes and Connor raises his arms, ready to block any hits coming his way, but then Murphy's posture changes, he almost deflates, taking a deep drag from his smoke and throwing himself down on his bed again. Connor lowers his arms, not trusting the peace until Murphy puts one hand on his belly and the other over his head - a blatant display of his usual sleeping position, and then Connor clambers up into his hammock and wills down the leftover adrenaline.

It's probably for the best to keep an eye out for that Romeo guy though. Just to make sure.

*

The shower isn't so much a shower as a rusty and creaky excuse of a pipe that's either dripping or rushing out water like the Niagara Falls. Connor makes due because two days of communal shower have been enough to rile up his brain with paranoia of staph infections. Some of these men on here look like walking incubators, and that's still an understatement.

Now he soaps himself up, quick and efficient, tucked away in the corner of the room and water running towards the small drain hole. Behind him, Murphy rummages around, smoke from his cigarette perpetually floating about. He hasn't brought up their last conservation and Connor doesn't plan to, either. He still suspects there's got to be another reason for Murphy's recent foul mood, but he's not about to bring more attention to it and consequently being the one his bastard of a brother lets his mood out on.  
  
The rummaging stops and Connor steps back under the spray, the cold water being equal parts a relief to his overused muscles and a bloody shame, too, because it's been years since he's had a warm shower and a man can only take so much, really. When he finishes and turns around, Murphy sits at the table, smoking and looking at him.  
  
It's weird.  
  
Connor walks over to pick up a towel, rubbing it through his hair before he fastens it around his hips.  
  
Murphy still looks at him, a complicated frown on his face. The cigarette in his hand is burning out, he's not even smoking it.  
  
“What?” Connor asks eventually, stealing the smoke and taking a quick drag before he stubs it out.  
  
“Nothin',” Murphy says, frowning. “Just knackered.”  
  
“Aye.” Connor sighs and stretches his back with a pop. “I'm turning in.” He throws the towel over the chair and steps into a pair of boxers, ignoring Murphy blinking at the wall when he heaves himself up into his hammock. It takes a while until Murphy gets moving and even though Connor's eyes are already closed, he knows there's still a frown on his face.

Just a few more days, he thinks. Hopefully, Murphy will be over whatever makes him act the maggot before they reach Boston.

*

The next morning, Murphy's mood seems pleasant enough, he even whistles halfheartedly while he’s showering, and Connor releases a breath he didn't know he'd been holding in. He goes about his day in good spirits and by midday, when they're in the mess hall eating with the rest of the crew, he's already forgotten all about it.

Some tiny alarm bells go off when he's showering again, washing off the soap, and he can feel Murphy's eyes against the back of his head. Half-dreading Murphy's stare turned on him again, Connor shuts off the water with slow movements, but when he turns to pick up the towel, Murphy avoids his eyes as soon as he catches him looking.

Still weird, but could be worse.

Murphy clears his throat, smoke floating around him and eyes dark when he looks back up. “I was thinking about the tattoo,” he says and lies, “Will ye let me do a few lines? While it's still fresh in my mind.”

“Sure.” Murphy is lying and Murphy knows that he always knows – there's no point to it. Maybe there's something akin to getting stir crazy but for ships instead. That's probably what Murphy has. Connor drops his towel and turns in circles, looking around for where he put his last clean boxers.

“I'll set everything up, then,” Murphy says unnecessarily.

Connor blinks, jerking back when he sees Murphy's face full of _resolve_. It's a tad much for the simple act of tattooing, surely.

For a moment, they frown at each other, then Murphy marches off with a pinched expression and Connor shakes his head, barely managing to hold in a sigh. The second he spots his boxers and steps into them, there's a knock on the door— and it's Romeo. With him, he brings a bottle of tequila, a card game, and a somewhat hyperactive mood.  
  
Murphy isn't impressed and he isn't impressed later on; several drinks and won games into the night and the mean glint hasn't left his eyes once. Connor briefly wonders whether Romeo picks up on it or if he focuses so much on Connor - and he does, Connor can't deny that - because Murphy is giving him the cold shoulder. Or if Murphy gives Romeo the cold shoulder _because_ Romeo keeps his attention on Connor.

It's a chicken or egg question, one he can only lose over, so he tries to enjoy the evening for what it is, a good card game between acquaintances, maybe friends even, the smell of smoke and tequila around them, trading jokes. Still keeping an eye out for any advances Romeo might make - he doesn't notice any, but the guy definitely tries to impress him, jumping from topic to topic to find common interests, approving everything he says even when it's the exact opposite of what he said himself.  
  
It's hilarious and despite looking out for hidden flirtation, Connor can't remember the last time he felt this relaxed when it wasn't just Murphy and him. It's been a great long while.   
  
Next to him, Murphy chugs down another shot, still glaring at the room at large. He deals out the cards expertly, though, no cheating that Connor can spot. Aye, he thinks again, it's been a long while.

*

After their next shift, they follow the stream of people to another fight, this time without Romeo. They bet on a guy looking like a concrete wall, grumbling insults in Russian and cracking his knuckles like in a movie fight. Connor rolls his eyes even though he's impressed by his sheer force while Murphy stands a few steps away, looking like he's deep in conversation with Romeo, of all people. It looks like he even laughs at one of Romeo's jokes, which in return makes Romeo grin at him like he just hung the moon. Connor shakes his head, but he's glad, secretly. Romeo's offer still stands and if Murphy can arrange his petty feelings, they might've found a valuable asset. They've been out of the game for a while, an extra pair of eyes will be useful, surely.  
  
He's about to go over and join them to push that particular agenda when a Frenchman comes up to him, challenging him for an extra bet. They haggle and make small talk, both lying through their teeth - working on a ship does that, Connor thinks idly - and a few minutes later, Murphy strolls over and introduces himself, nice-smile plastered on his face. Connor grins, raising his eyebrows at the lovely and utterly fake smile, but Murphy just turns his nice-smile on him instead, and Connor scoffs and lets him be.  
  
They chat for a while and when the fight begins, the Frenchman wanders off, leaving them to cheer on alone. The actual fight lasts about 20 seconds and earns them a few hundred quid and Connor is ready to retire, but then another man comes near for conversation and Murphy smiles again.  
  
It doesn't stop.   
  
In fact, Murphy doesn't seem tired at all. Every time someone comes so much as in talking distance, Murphy starts to socialize. He jokes and smiles and laughs. He looks like he wants to befriend every last sailor on this ship. Connor grows tired of the routine when he realizes that no one is actually talking to _him_ anymore and if they do, Murphy appears out of nowhere, somehow making better small talk and complaining better about the other workers, the food, the lack of women and the weather.   
  
Half an hour later, Connor has enough and excuses himself, walking back to their room and pretending his moody didn't turn sour. He hasn't even finished undressing when the door opens and Murphy comes in, casual and relaxed, their money in hand and no creepy smile on his face.  
  
Connor pulls his shirt over his head. “Ye seem to be in a good mood.”  
  
“Why wouldn't I be?”  
  
“Penny for yer thoughts, Murph. Or should I say moods?”  
  
“Shut up,” Murphy says and it sounds friendly enough, so Connor drops it. Not waking sleeping dogs and all, it's for the best.  
  
He loses the rest of his clothes and starts his routine under the shower, half-heartedly listening to Murphy clattering about like he's clearing the empty bottles from the table. Some time later, there's the scrape of a chair. Pretty beaten already, Connor doesn't drag out his business and finishes within minutes, turning around in search for a towel, unsurprised when he finds Murphy sitting at the table, feet up, smoke between his lips and hand on his belly.  
  
He's watching him.  
  
This isn't- new. Maybe he's having a deja-vu.  
  
They look at each other and Connor waits for the other shoe to drop even though Murphy's mood seems better now, but nothing happens. With a huff, he gets moving again, grabbing the towel and rubbing it through his hair before he looks up again and sees that Murphy is actually still looking over. Or rather - Murphy is looking _at_ him, giving him a complete once-over. Like there's still a place somewhere on Connor's body he hasn't laid his eyes on yet. In the past _decades_. He doesn't particularly drag it out, but Connor's skin still tingles with the sensation of being looked at so closely.

There isn't a part Murphy spares; he's looking at his face and his chest and his arms and his feet. He's looking at his legs, at the faded scar of the bullet wound and the ugly patch of skin burned away by the iron. He's looking at his cock, hanging limply between his legs. He stops after one last sweeping inspection, then he stubs out his smoke and yawns. “Come on, next shift starts in a few hours and they won't wait on ye because ye decided to stand around all night.”  
  
Definitely not a deja-vu. He'd remember, all right.

*

He's tired. He's exhausted, actually. He's weary in a way he hasn't been for a while, but on the other hand, nothing's like it has been for a while. They're on a ship, doing physical labor varying greatly from what he's used to; riding, chopping wood, herding sheep. In Ireland, they used to be busy all day, but they were never in a real hurry since the work would've never been finished anyway. Now there's nothing _but_ haste and his batteries are drained.  
  
Murphy clears his throat. “Want me to work on yer tattoo?”  
  
Connor nods, pleased enough, and when Murphy moves to get the supplies, Connor leans forward just enough to stop sprawling against the chair and lifts his arms.

“Really?”

Connor shrugs and wiggles his fingers, grinning when Murphy steps up behind his chair and bends around him. For a moment, Murphy's fingers skim over the hem of his shirt and Connor sucks in a surprised breath, and then at the puff of air against his neck, too, just when Murphy pulls at the fabric and brushes his knuckles against his ribs. He's suddenly so near Connor can smell him, in all the ways he's known since they were small and in a few that are new, and Connor has no idea what to _do_ with that information— The shirt comes off and the moment is over.

For the first time in forever, he feels exposed. He clears his throat.

Murphy moves around somewhere, probably fetching the needle and ink, and Connor stands for long enough to turn the chair around and slump forward against the backrest. His skin still tingles and he clears his throat again.

Murphy puts down the materials and wipes down the part of the tattoo he's planning to work on. “Yer quiet today.”

Connor shrugs while he still has the freedom to do so, staying quiet until the pen starts to drag over his skin, raising goosebumps even though they've done this dozens of times. “I'm tired, I suppose,” he says belatedly.

Behind him, Murphy puts the pen away and taps on his shoulder, signaling he's about to start with the needle. “From the work?”

The needle pierces in, slow and sure, and all of a sudden, Connor feels comfortable. This is something he knows. This is routine. “Aye,” he says, warmth curling in his insides. “Guess I'm not used to this many people anymore.”

Murphy squeezes his shoulder. “Me neither.” Somehow, he manages to sound carefree about it.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Connor tries to get a look at Murphy's face, but Murphy squeezes his shoulder again, stalling his movement. “That's not what I thought,” Connor says, “or yer not doing a good job at it. Ye know, with trying to befriend every last person on this ship.”

The needle pauses on his skin, setting him on edge with the anticipation of a pain that doesn't come.

“I did no such thing,” Murphy says, sounding weird.

Connor frowns. “Aye, ye did. At the fight yesterday, don't ye remember?” He hears Murphy scoffing and there's no answer except for the needle starting to pierce his skin again. “That's not what ye were doing,” Connor says, blinking. That's not what Murphy did at _all_. “Ye don't even like people that much!”

“Shut it,” Murphy says and then he sighs and picks up the towel. “I didn't plan it.”

“Plan what, exactly?” Connor asks because he might have an idea, but it's only half-cooked and— “It used to be just us,” he says, ignoring his own advice. The towel rubs over the new part of his tattoo, over and over, skin sensitive and itching by now. Murphy says nothing. “It used to be just us,” Connor says again. “Ye tried to– what? Not get left behind?”

Murphy clears his throat, finally stopping to wipe. “I suppose.”

“Yer jealous.”

“Ah, shut up.” He stays out of his line of sight and Connor wonders if he's just standing there, looking at his back.

The warmth in his insides is suddenly too intense instead of reassuring. “I get that as well,” Connor says and then he thinks of something else, blinking ahead. “I used to be good at sharing.”

“What the fuck, Connor.”

There's no answer to that, because he has no idea what he's saying. He just runs with it. “It's been years, just the two of us. And Da, but that's different,” Connor says, voice low. He turns, looking at Murphy with a shrug. “It's natural that it feels... too much to be around loads of people now. When it used to be just us,” he finishes lamely.

Murphy stares at him, looking unsure somehow, like he wants to say something and he doesn't know how to, like he wants _him_ to say whatever seems to stress him so badly, all of these past days.

“We'll get used to it,” Connor says, trying. “We get better at sharing again, it's not like one of us would leave or anything.”

“Fuck no,” Murphy says and then he grins in a small, one-sided way. “Shit, we're done yet?”

Connor grins back, feeling lighter. “I should be the one asking that. Yer done with the tattoo for today?”

Murphy nods and they look at each other for a moment, leveling. Connor can't see any trace of insecurity left on Murphy's and he nods to himself, pleased.

When he gets up to head over to the shower, Murphy starts to clean up and Connor feels like everything is back to normal. Finally, he knows what Murphy's moods were about and now that he knows, he can tease him with it, bring him out of his thoughts instead of just suffering the consequences like he had to.

He is at peace for about five minutes.

By then, the cold water holds no appeal anymore, the soap smells old and ship-y, there's air coming from _somewhere_ , cold on his already cold skin, and also, there are eyes against his back. He doesn't know-know, but he feels them all the same. He's felt them for days, every time he steps under this excuse of a shower and back then he didn't know what to make of the feeling. Now, though—

When it's been long enough that he can't stall any longer, Connor turns off the water, pretending he can't see Murphy sitting at the table again, eyes on him, again, and marches over to pick up the towel.

Goosebumps rise on his neck, and Murphy won't quit.

Connor towels at his hair for longer than reasonable and then he hangs it over a pipe and just stands for a moment, limbs loose. He swallows. Somehow, without his input, he turns around.

Murphy watches, eyes intense, and he's not moving at all.

It's weird.

“Been a while, aye?” Murphy says, pointing his chin at Connor's chest.

Uneasy, Connor looks down at himself, confused until he sees it's not his chest that needs any sort of attention. It's his cock, trying to remind him it's been neglected for a while, regardless of cold showers and drafts and brothers staring. It's only a weak hello, slightly engorged and a bit heavier, and Connor _prays_ , utterly at loss.

The door opens with a shriek.

Murphy is up in a flash and at the door, one hand on the handle and the other at the frame above his head. He's like a shield. “Not now,” he says and it sounds final, no room for discussion. He slides the door shut, movements precise and calm, and Connor breathes through his mouth, he breathes, breathes.

“It's been a decade, actually,” he says, explaining himself instead of dropping the topic like a sane person.

Murphy turns around and raises his eyebrows. There's a flush on his face. “That's not what I meant,” he says and then he walks back to the table and goes about his business.

Connor stays rooted to the ground, cold for real until it's clear Murphy lost interest in talking, and then he finally fishes out some boxers and covers himself up.

Later, when he tries to sleep, he thinks Murphy is probably right. It's been a while since he took care of himself, too.

*

When he wakes, he immediately thinks of it again, which, in his opinion, counts as a big sign that, yes, it's been too fucking long.

He stresses himself all day with the idea of not being able to get any privacy whatsoever and not being able to _take care_ of it, but then luck is finally on his side when Romeo catches them on their way to their room, solely talking to Murphy and apologizing for interrupting their plan-making the evening before. Also, he would like to help and has several plans and outlines, some of them on actual paper, which he would like to show Murphy right away.

“Good idea,” Connor says, trying to sound altruistic.

Murphy squints at him but he agrees, and they wander off to wherever Romeo is housed, leaving Connor in peace.

He practically marches to their room, shutting the door with force and dropping his clothes where he goes, turning on the water before he's even ready to step under.

This won't take long.

At first, the cold water troubles him, but the prospect of relieving the built-up tension, all these hot, coiling feelings inside of him, wins over in the end. He's hard within minutes and then he's going to town on it, wasting no time stalling or toying with himself. One hand braced against the slimy wall, the other working rapidly on his cock and _aye_ , it won't take long at all.

“Oh- shit,” he groans and comes all over his hand, pumping through until he can't stand it any longer. Then he lets out a satisfied sigh, turning his face towards the water and rinsing off one last time.

He turns around and Murphy says, “Better?”

“ _Jesus,_ ” Connor shrieks, and then, “What the fuck, Murphy?”

Murphy is sitting at the table again.

Murphy is _always_ sitting at that table now, and nothing good comes of it, ever.

Connor feels the mighty urge to cover himself up, because twins or not, there has got to be a line somewhere and if there is, it should include covering up recently used, still flushed and _highly_ sensitive cocks. Actually, even the air on it feels too much right now, and Connor's face feels so heated he surely looks like a tomato— Murphy is looking at him again.

“Well?” Murphy asks and Connor draws a blank. His brain is literally empty.

“I didn't know ye were here,” he rasps.

Murphy grins, smoke hanging from his lips. “I gathered as much, ye were pretty busy.”

“I didn't know ye were here,” Connor says again. Stresses, actually.

Murphy glances up, body too still all of a sudden. “Does it matter?”

Connor's eyes snap over to the towel and he stays standing where he is, dripping water, freezing, and cock out for the world (Murphy) to see. He shakes his head. In truth, it doesn't matter.

Tension fills the air until Connor can't stand it any longer and he goes over to take the towel, finally covering himself up and feeling his brainpower coming back to him in the process. He frowns. “Weren't you gonna go over Romeo's plans?”

“Wasn't as interesting,” Murphy says, and Connor sees _red_.

“I came here, I fucking ran here, for a few minutes of privacy. I can't be alone for ten minutes before yer here again, out of thin air. For the love of everything good, can't ye just leave me alone for a few fucking minutes?”

Murphy is very still. Everything about him is frozen, even his chest doesn't seem to rise anymore.

“Shit.” He jerks forward, trying to catch Murphy's gaze. “I shouldn't have said that.”

Murphy's teeth dig into his lips, the rest of him stays motionless. Unsure, Connor takes a step towards him, raising his hand a couple of times and dropping it again.

“Makes me wonder how long ye've wanted to get it off yer chest,” Murphy says, blinking fast in the way he does when he's trying to figure something out without employing violence. “Since only fucking yesterday ye said it was 'normal', didn't ye?”

“I'm sorry.” He feels like wringing his hands, so he does. “I didn't mean it, Murph. It was- in the heat of the moment.”

“Grand. Let's forget it.” Murphy nods and then he gets up and goes for their bags. He's still blinking and his shoulders curl forward like he's ready to defend himself.

“Murph,” Connor says urgently and takes another futile step towards him, not knowing what he intends to do if Murphy would let him in the first place. “I'm sorry.”

Murphy turns, eyes burning and chin high. He's fucking hurting. “I heard ye, all right. Fucking drop it.”

There's nothing he can say to that. Connor rushes out a breath and after a few minutes of strained silence, Murphy is the one trying to break the tension with small talk.

Something inside of him hurts, and Connor can't find the strength to name it.

*

They've been close, but this is a whole new level.

Murphy is everywhere, all the time, and it's not just that he's present, he's constantly within arm's reach, too. Murphy looks at him and his hands are on his skin, for the tattoo or a quick squeeze of his shoulder, a slap against his back, thighs pressed together during meals, changing clothes— They've always done that. It's got to be something else.

For once, he's the one sitting at the table, sporadically glancing over to where Murphy is showering. An age-old ritual; Murphy washing up in the mornings, Connor in the evenings. It's always been like that. Everything _about_ them has always been like that.

Connor tries to keep his mind busy with cleaning their remaining coins – only a few days until they reach the harbor – but his eyes wander over to Murphy anyhow, wondering.

It hasn't only been a decade for him, living in the secluded cottage, away from anyone who wasn't a direct blood relative. Murphy was never big on girlfriends and later on, when they had their shithole of an apartment, neither of them brought back flings, ever. Tasteless, that's what it would've been - not that they ever discussed it. It just _was_.

It's been years upon years for Murphy, too, and Murphy doesn't seem like he's in need of taking care of himself the way _he_ does now. As if something woke up inside of him again, as if he flipped a switch when he touched himself. He has an urge, suddenly.

Seems like he's the only one.

Connor spends his day pondering it and in consequence being annoyed with himself because- really, and when it's getting later and the time of his ritual comes closer, he feels restless beyond reason. Murphy picks up on it, though probably not on the reason behind it. At least that's what he thinks until he starts to take off his clothes and Murphy sits down in a not even close to sneaky way and actually turns the chair in his direction.

Connor whines a bit. “For fuck's sake,” he says, stepping out of his boxers. When he turns on the water, he thinks he should tell Murphy to go away, but then he doesn't. The water cools him off for a few moments and he thinks he's safe, and immediately after, his back starts to tingle again, goosebumps rising all over his skin and he forces out a rough breath. “Murph, best be off now,” he says, hoping he doesn't have to actually say the words.

Murphy doesn't respond and Connor leans his head against the wall, feeling helpless. “I'm gonna do it whether ye sit there or not,” he informs him, he _warns_ him, and listens. Listens.

There's nothing, no answer, no movement.

Weird doesn't cut it anymore, there are no words for what this situation is. Breathing out slowly, Connor looks down at himself and lets go, stopping himself from holding back. He fills out so fast his knees almost buckle with it and then he takes himself in hand, stroking once, twice, and nothing bad happens, no one comes to arrest him or to scream at him. There's just the cold water on his body and his hand on his cock. And Murphy, sitting behind him.

He's never done it with anyone watching him, indirectly or not. Certainly, there's a protocol to be followed, whether one should moan or cut off all noises, whether to draw it out or to finish quickly, whether to stay turned away or expose— He's coming all over himself, not a minute in. This time, his knees do buckle with it and he grips the wall to not lose his footing. Maybe, possibly, he's making noises, too.

Shame washes over him and his face is on fire, but then he thinks, _no_ , he did warn Murphy. He told him, before. There's nothing to be ashamed of. He keeps telling himself that fact when he turns off the water and rushes to the towel, wrapping it around his hips. “I told ye,” he says, and only then he manages to glance over, unable to make sense of the look on Murphy's face.

“That was the idea,” Murphy says, voice rough and muscles tense. “Yer always doing it like that, so urgently?”

This is it. They're talking about his masturbating habits now.

“Or do ye just really need it?”

He doesn't think his face will return to a normal color, ever. “Shut up,” Connor says weakly, standing like a tool, looking at Murphy looking at him, discussing entirely intimate matters for reasons he does not understand in the slightest.

Murphy grins, fingers dancing over the shabby table. “Option two it is, no?” The grin turns sharp, almost mean. “Ye need someone to _ride_ ye.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Connor breathes, and then he coughs and clears his throat. “That's enough.”

“Tell me I'm wrong, then.”

“Ye aren't fucking wrong, but we're on a ship now, aren't we? I don't think there's a great chance of finding someone willing to 'ride me', as ye put it so nicely.” Connor frowns. “Don't fucking tell me this is about Romeo again.”

Murphy is in his space at once. “He doesn't get to see ye like this.”

“Fuck,” Connor says again, feeling— something in his chest, something in his insides. It's too hot, burning.

Murphy is right in front of him, eyes roaming over his face like he's looking for something. There's a thought in Connor's head, suddenly, or since forever, which he should pray over, in confession, asking for forgiveness. Murphy breathes deeply and with each exhale, Connor smells cigarettes and peppermint; the chewing gum he's obsessed with lately, and then Murphy steps back, mouth open and eyes intense, and Connor thinks. He wants-

Murphy is out like a light ten minutes later, his mind apparently not overwhelmed with the need to pray away a sin not even committed. It takes Connor so long to follow, some time during the night he even forgets what kept him awake in the first place.

*

The next evening, after their last shift before they reach the harbor, Romeo corners him. Connor actually feels guilty for ignoring him these last few days, mind busy with- He goes with Romeo, listening to his plans about cars, his uncle, places to sleep and money to be made, and when he leaves, he's glad he went. Romeo will definitely be useful and maybe a friend even, some day. They could use a friend, he thinks.

When he enters their room, Murphy wanders about, packing their bags with a spring in his step. He turns around when he hears Connor coming over and ducks his head, smiling. Connor smiles back, feeling dumb, and turns towards the shower, trying not to make it weird. To his surprise, it works. He showers in peace, cock staying soft and no tingling sensation against his back, instead the soft noises of Murphy packing their bags.

Connor scrubs himself clean one last time - hopefully - before he gets to use a real shower again and when he turns with the towel already around his hips, Murphy says, “Connor.” and Connor freezes. Drops of water run over his body and get absorbed by the towel, and he tickles all over and there are goosebumps everywhere, and he's breathing too heavily— This is it, now it happens, and he _prays_ again, inside his head.

“Sit on the chair, will ye?” Murphy says and his voice is hoarse and Connor does what he's told, just like that. He sits down, knees bumping against the wood and Murphy walks to the door, opens his belt and pulls it off.

Connor wants to ask. He doesn't. Instead, he watches his brother sling the belt through the handle and the opening next to the door, fastening it, making it tight, pulling for confirmation and pulling again until he's sure the door can't be moved any longer. Then he turns around, fingers on the buttons of his jeans.

“Connor,” he says, asks, stilling his hands and pulling his lip between his teeth.

Connor nods, pretending he doesn't know what the question is, and Murphy drops his pants and his boxers right after, out of his shoes and socks. His cock is already filling, nestled between a dark shock of hair like on his head, and Connor has trouble breathing.

Murphy steps closer and braces himself on Connor's thigh, leaning down to untangle the towel. The knot comes loose and he parts it with steady hands, exposing him.

“Murph,” Connor says weakly, hands balled on his thighs until Murphy takes those too, shoving them aside, and then he's climbing and spreading his legs, sitting down heavily on top of him. He supports himself with one hand against the edge of the table and for some reason, he's still wearing his shirt.

“Fuck,” Connor says helplessly. “Murph, fuck.”

Murphy's face is flushed (as is his cock, Connor knows now) and his pupils are blown. Somehow, he looks otherworldly. “Told ye,” he says, quiet. “Ye need someone to ride ye.”  
  
It's just so much, the smell of him, the _intimate_ smell of him, Murphy's heavy weight on him, the sight of his cock filling out steadily. Connor glances down at his own. It's already standing, waving for attention. Of course, he thinks, and then he can't hold back any longer and grabs Murphy by the hips, digging his fingers in.

“I've already- ye know,” Murphy says and Connor doesn't, in fact, but Murphy goes on, “Ye can check if ye want to.” He sounds almost _shy_ , which is fucking ridiculous and when Connor doesn't follow, his fingers close around Connor's and he guides them between his legs.

Connor wants to ask when and how and why, but Murphy is clenching at him, not around him, because Connor just feels around for a bit. Down where Murphy is slick and loose— Connor closes his eyes for a moment and then another, right until Murphy moves his hips, nudging against his finger, and then Connor lets it slip in with barely any resistance and all morals leave him.

Above him, Murphy starts panting. His hips keep moving and he cuts off some kind of noises, sounding hoarse, and Connor needs to hear them again, so he draws out and adds another finger. Murphy bows his head and whines _,_ slapping his arm and Connor doesn't follow, he spreads his fingers, thrilled and a bit alarmed at the way Murphy stretches around him until one slap hits him particularly hard.

“Out,” Murphy says.

Connor complies, disappointed.

Murphy places one hand on his shoulder and closes the other around Connor's cock, wet with something and cutting off a noise again when Connor thrusts up without meaning to, but then Murphy lets go of him and heaves himself up. Connor clutches at his hips, holding on tight when Murphy guides him in and sits down with shaking muscles.

“Murph,” Connor says again, voice small and blood on fire, holding his breath to keep himself from moving.

Murphy puts his elbow up on the table behind him, shirt pressed to his skin, wet with sweat and muscles in his thighs visibly straining when he pushes himself up. He hovers, then he sits again.

They're fucking.

It's nothing to write poetry about. It's urgent and wild, out of control, really, and even if Connor could hold out longer, the moment he sees Murphy coming all over himself, hand on his own cock, and the _noises_ he makes - it's over.

Stunned, Connor tries to catch his breath.

Murphy breathes just as hard, mouth open and face flushed, come all over his shirt and hand, cock still half hard— “I can feel it inside of me,” he rasps, craning his neck to look at where their bodies are pressed together, slotting into each other. “It's leaking out,” he adds and moves to get up.

Connor grabs him by the hips so fast he's surprised himself. “No,” he says, blinking. “Sit- just a while longer.” He has no idea what he's doing and Murphy seems to think the same, he already opens his mouth for what is probably going to be a complaint, but Connor's brain is stuck on an idea. He leans forward, a bit unsure, and kisses him. It feels more intimate than fucking. It feels more intimate than his softening cock still inside of Murphy, come dribbling around him, out of Murphy's body.   
  
It's the best decision he's made in a while.  
  
They kiss without urgency, deep and dirty and breathless, and after a while, they press their foreheads together, panting against each other. Murphy smiles, and Connor's heart is on fire.

When Murphy moves to get up this time, Connor lets him, sucking in a sharp breath at the sensation of skin dragging against his oversensitive cock. He wonders how Murphy must feel, down where he was pressed inside - he wasn't gentle by all means. He glances over, watching Murphy peel out of his shirt with a disgusted face and walking over to the shower, moving like he always does. Relieved, Connor uses the towel to wipe at his lap, hearing the sound of the water starting up in the corner of the room. Somehow, he can't take his eyes off of him.

It's just Murphy, he wants to think, but 'just Murphy' doesn't cut it anymore. It never did, if he's being honest.   
  
Murphy lets the water rush over him for a few moments and then he reaches around, cupping water in his hand. It disappears between his butt cheeks, and Connor is up and behind him in an instant.

“What yer doing?”  
  
“I'm cleaning yer come out of my arse, Connor."  
  
“Let me,” Connor says, hoarse and fucking happy to hear his brother bitch at him after what they did, and even happier when Murphy actually drops his hand and makes room for Connor's take its place instead. He rubs his fingers in soothing circles until he reaches where he wants to be and then he can't help it, one finger slips inside, smooth and easy, twitching a bit when Murphy hisses without jerking back or turning away.

Connor leans his head against Murphy's shoulder, trying to control his breathing. It's fucking _wet_. It's his come. Inside of Murphy. He pulls out and breathes against Murphy's skin. “I'm-” he says without knowing where to go with it. He turns his hand and presses his thumb in, and it goes just as easily. Murphy's hips do jerk this time, back towards his hand, not away from him. Connor loses his mind for a second.

Pulling his thumb out and reaching forward, Connor shuts off the water. “Come on,” he rumbles and takes his brother by the hips, guiding him back to the table and positioning him with his back towards the chair. He presses against Murphy's back, pushing down until Murphy has to lean on his elbows and then some more until his upper body lies flat against the surface. Then he sits down on the chair, clears his throat and says, “Spread yer legs.”   
  
Murphy doesn't. “What for?”  
  
Connor places his hand on Murphy's arse. “I wanna clean ye up,” he says and Murphy obeys, and Connor's brain leaves the atmosphere.   
  
One second he's just looking, seeing how stretched out Murphy is, where he's been with his own cock and fingers, and then Murphy clenches around nothing and the next second Connor is pressed against him, tongue sliding over hot and abused skin, and he's licking his own come out of Murphy's arse.   
  
Murphy _sobs_. His whole body jerks, first forward against the table and then back against Connor's face, and he's saying something, mumbled and breathless, and Connor can't hear him. He presses one of his hands against the small of Murphy's back, trying to hold him in place while the other pulls at his butt cheek, spreading him open.

“I thought ye didn't. Ye said I should leave ye alone. Oh, fuck- and ye said ye want privacy- fuck.”

Connor hushes him and watches in amazement how Murphy arches his back when his breath ghosts over Murphy's hole. He rubs over it with his thumb, stretching a bit, watching come leak out in small bursts.

“Fucking privacy,” Murphy whines, sounding completely out of control. “And then ye go and _present_ yerself-”

“I did no such thing,” Connor says before he leans back in, tongue moving to where Murphy clenches, leaking, and Connor thinks he should be disgusted. He thinks he _would_ be disgusted, but he can't manage the energy for it. A few days ago he smelled something new on Murphy, something he didn't know was there (a lie), not like all the things he'd known for years - sweat and dirt and soap and just Murphy, always, but also a musky, heady smell, masculine and somehow sinful, and now.

He wants it all.

“Murphy,” Connor says. He's hard again. It hasn't been that long and he's been touching himself for several days in a row, and the smell of Murphy and the taste of him, the taste of _them_ on his tongue makes his cock hard.

The chair scrapes over the floor when he presses his mouth to Murphy's lower back, following the line of his spine until he's standing up fully. He places one hand on Murphy's neck and reaches down with the other, pushing the head of his cock in. Then he waits, heart beating in overtime and hand resting without pressure on Murphy's neck.

Murphy cranes his head to look at him, cheek against his forearm and hair plastered to his face, still wet from the shower, wet with his sweat. “Slick up,” he rumbles and flicks his eyes over to the small bottle not far from his head.

Lost, Connor blinks, feeling like technicalities are above his pay grade now, but then he remembers that Murphy was stretched and ready and Murphy slicked him up before he sat down on him, too, and the bottle must've stood there the entire time, even when he first came in, because that was the plan, that was the plan— Murphy clenches around him in a pointed gesture and Connor snaps out of it.

“Aye,” he says, distracted, reaching over to grab the bottle and slicking himself up without pulling out, because that's not something he can bring himself to do just yet. When he's done, he slides in, bottoming out without hesitation. Murphy rises from the table, trying to hold himself up with shaking arms and Connor slides his own arm around Murphy's chest, helping to hold the weight. He thrusts, unhurried and deep, and Murphy's legs shake so badly Connor feels the vibrations against his own skin.

“Again,” Murphy moans, whines. “Do that again.”

He does.

After a few while, Connor comes to the conclusion that there's a spot somewhere inside of Murphy, making him go wild. He tries to hit it continuously although he doesn't know where and how and when, so it's more out of luck when he actually hits it, making Murphy keen again. He rolls his hips, slow and steady, and finds that he doesn't have the urge to simply fuck anymore, this is almost—And it's just as good, maybe better, but he can't see Murphy's face like this, only hear him, and it's almost enough, almost.

Murphy grips the hand Connor still presses against his chest and pulls them down until Connor feels coarse hair, and his fingers curl around Murphy's cock on instinct, stroking roughly until Murphy stills against him.

“Fuck,” he says weakly, and then he's coming over the table, over Connor's hand, clenching, all his muscles are tensing, relaxing and tensing again, and Connor bites his shoulder to muffle a moan, pulling out and coming all over Murphy's arse.

“Fuck,” Murphy says again. He turns his head back to look at him, pupils blown and face flushed. “I'm sure hoping the engines were loud enough to cover that up.”

“Oh,” Connor breathes and suddenly he giggles, and then he laughs, pressing his forehead against Murphy's shoulder. “They better did,” he says when reality comes back into focus.

Murphy pats his hand, still curled loosely around his cock. It's a gentle caress if there ever was one. He turns around, legs weak, from the look of it. “Okay?” He's naked and standing in front of him without shame, without anything to hide, and he looks sated and all around them it smells like sex, heavy in the air, and his eyes are _kind_.

Connor swallows and thinks, now I love ye in this way, too. He doesn't say it. He nods instead, and then he shoves Murphy towards the shower, promising to let him clean up this time, and he wipes the table, naked as he is, and he thinks - this is okay.

*

He's pretty sure Romeo has been crying. His eyes have been shiny and wet ever since they agreed to let him drive them. In his car.

Connor squints in his direction, but they've been over it before; if there's anything fishy about Romeo, it's his huge, shiny eyes only, nothing that makes him _dangerous,_ per se. Still, Connor thinks, walking over to their bags, it's best to keep an eye on him.

Murphy slithers up to him, looking shady. “There are some things I want to discuss with ye,” he says loudly.

Connor juts his jaw. “Is that so.”

“Aye,” Murphy hollers, then he clears his throat. “Best to check into a motel for the night, really, so we've time to discuss things.”

Connor is actually speechless for a moment. “Yer serious?” he hisses, frantically turning his head to see if anyone is listening in. “What the fuck, Murph?”

Romeo strolls over, looking happy and carefree, and says, “What?”

There are situations Connor doesn't deal with and this is one of them. He abstracts himself by bending down to pick up their bags and then Murphy's hand is on his back, resting lightly on his jacket, and Connor feels like staying down.

“We need to catch up on a few things,” Murphy lies. “We'll be meeting ye in the morning if that's all right?”

As if anyone ever said no to Murphy, Romeo doesn't either. But he does look fundamentally disappointed, Connor thinks, squinting up.

“Catch up on what? Maybe I can be of help,” Romeo says and Connor wants to cry. He doesn't, though, because he's a man. Murphy's fingers tap against his back, somehow annoying and soothing at the same time.

“That's quite all right, we'll manage,” Murphy says, smiling, from the sound of it.

Connor thinks he should stand up, and possibly soon, because what he's doing now is more suspicious than starting to cry, randomly, on a stinky dock, but then Romeo leaves and spares him the decision.

After a few steps, he turns around and waves at them and shortly after, he turns around _again_ , smiling and nodding and waving.

“That's what I call a lengthy goodbye,” Murphy comments and bends down next to him, eyes on their bags. “When we get a room, ye better clean up good, Connor. Don't think I didn't hear ye yesterday.”

“Fucking- will ye stop?” Connor hisses in panic, though Murphy is actually pretty good at pretending, he even pokes at a bag, seemingly testing the strength of the zipper.

“Ye want to learn all about the _spot_ , no? That's what ye said. Or moaned, to be more precise.” Technically, Connor knows Murphy's voice is so low even he can barely understand him, but it doesn't make him any less uneasy. He switches to Russian, just in case.

“Murph,” he tries to reason, “Let's just get going, I can- If ye want me to, I can do it. Later.”

Murphy turns his head, too near all of a sudden, especially with that grin on his face. “Don't be daft, I'll _show_ ye. This isn't a one-way street, ye know.” For a moment, the hand on Connor's back dips lower and Murphy's thumb catches on his belt.

“Fuck,” Connor says weakly and then he squats down because there's no way he can be standing up now, for everyone to see-

“Take yer time.” Murphy straightens, grinning. Then he lights a smoke and his face turns serious. “Ye didn't think it would be, Connor?”

“What?”

Murphy squats down and holds out the smoke, looking a bit shy. “This isn't- I know I said ye need someone to- but that's not what it was, Con? Cause there are things I wanna try, things ye _did_ \- shit, this is complicated out here.” He looks around and lowers his voice even more. “I want to do them to ye. If ye want to, that is. Especially the thing with- and that's what we do now, no?”

“ _Aye_ ,” Connor stresses. “It's what we do now, stop talking about it here. Fuck, Murph, that could've waited until-” He stops at Murphy's face, sort of pinched. He groans. “Ye can do whatever ye want to, I- it's not like I haven't. For fuck's sake, I'll bend over for ye, all right? Is that what ye want to hear?”

“I imagined it more like ye on a bed, lying back, spread open like a girl,” Murphy rumbles, because he's a bastard and Connor doesn't want to be associated with him. “Letting me _see_ -”

“That's enough.” Face hot, Connor stands and picks up two of their bags, ignoring his state entirely. “We're going now.”

They do.

His flush doesn't let up. Turns out, Murphy is pretty set on seeing it on his face all the time. It's working; it actually doesn't let up until they meet Romeo the next morning and Connor thinks he's finally safe, but then he sits down in the car and one shift on the seat is enough, he heats up all over again. He finds out, with Murphy's thumb rubbing over the fading letters of his tattoo, just out of sight - Murphy likes that, too.

 


End file.
